


I guarantee I had the better St Patrick's...

by FateFeather



Series: AUs From Last Night [3]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Dominatrix!Natasha, F/M, Plot with a little porn, deaf!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3676455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FateFeather/pseuds/FateFeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... She rode my dick so hard I momentarily lost hearing.</p><p>See warnings and notes for more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I guarantee I had the better St Patrick's...

**Author's Note:**

> So as you can see this one is going to be a little explicit, and this universe will be featuring in other parts of this series. This AU is where Clint is deaf, Nat is a dominatrix and everyone is still de-powered. (I thought I was better at this world building stuff.)
> 
> I'm not sure if this counts but... Trigger warning: References to Domination, and to drinking. 
> 
> This ficlet doesn't contain any domination or kinks.

It hadn’t started as a bet or anything. It had genuinely been one of those ‘too drunk to care’ ordeals. Well, sort of. Clint had gone out with his friends. The problem was Clint barely paid attention to the day or time. So knowing what week it was? Or that it was a national holiday? Not his style.

 

“Hey, you’ve got an admirer.” Sam slurs across to Clint. Sure, the music in this bar meant it was more like Sam was screaming, but whatever. Nobody would overhear. Clint looks over to where Sam is looking, and tips his glass at a beautiful looking redhead. Turning back to the group he’s out with, Clint slugs his drink back, letting the spirit of the Irish charm him into feeling better about a holiday devoted to getting as smashed as possible. He just wished he didn’t have to wear a green shirt so people wouldn’t pinch him whilst doing so.

 

“I don’t know. She looks like she’ll eat me alive.” Clint motions for another drink to be brought over, rubbing behind his ear as he withdraws his fingers back down from the air. Not a lot of people, even the ones in his group of friends, knew that he needed hearing aids. The ones he had been given at first were awful, clunky, and obvious. The one he fiddled with now was so discreet that sometimes he forgot he was even deafened at all. But once he messes with his ear, he remembers. This time it was to lower the volume. He was already deaf, but God, he didn’t need music this bad and this loud perforating the fake eardrum.

 

“I like her!” Sam yells.

 

“Maybe she’ll be here tomorrow.” Clint observes as he is served another drink. After a little more chatter washes over them and their other friends Clint declares “I gotta take a piss” and stands to do just that. His best friends in the world look up at him and nod their understanding before they get back to their drinks. Steve had been sat with them, Bruce too. All of them had wanted Tony to come out with them too. It was the sad truth that Tony had to work.

 

As his friends, all of them had sworn not to tell anyone else the true reason the genius wasn’t out with them. Mr. Tony Sober-Stark and St. Patricks’ Day had a lot of issues now. A few years back this night would have been the ultimate in good times. It would have been free drinks all paid on a tab in the VIP room by the wonderful Mister Stark himself. But no matter how much Clint loved a free shot and beer to chase it down, he wasn’t going to endanger his friend’s wellbeing by insisting the guy come out and pay for them all. He wasn’t an asshole like that.

 

On the way back from the bathroom Clint doesn’t miss the fact that the redhead at the bar has been eying up the table since he first noticed her. With moves perfected throughout his entire dating life he heads to the bar and orders another pitcher for the table. He looks to her, then down at her drink. “And a Red Russian for the red.” He adds to the order.

 

“I’m impressed.” The red replies. Clint smirks at her with a young charm and an experienced glance to prove his confidence.

 

“Oh yeah? Why?” This time he fiddles with his ear, to actually hear what this woman has to say instead of staring to read her lips.

 

“Because most people don’t know what I drink.” She accepts the freshly made cocktail and places the straw between her lips. She pulls away to leave a red stain from her lipstick on it.

 

“Is everything about you in red?” Clint asks. “You know you’re supposed to be wearing green, right?”

 

“Must be why everyone’s trying to pinch my ass.” She replies cuttingly. Clint barks a laugh at that and takes his pitcher from the bar.

 

“Wait.” The woman says. She puts a napkin in his pocket and waves him away.

 

Stunned, but not willing to write her off, he goes back to the table.

 

* * *

 

“Her number?!” Sam is furious, but also impressed. Not to mention he’s too happy a drunk to let a woman ruin their friendship. “Man, I wanted her number.”

 

“She gave it to Clint, respect that.” Steve warns. Sam rolls his eyes, affection seeping into his grin. Clint wants to be childish, but beer brought out the worst side of him, so he tamps it down before he works himself up into getting kicked out of this place forever.

 

“Easy Steve, I’m just jealous.” Sam shrugs it off, clinks glasses with Clint over the victory of at least being picked by her, and they go back to drinking like it never happened. Clint keeps a firm hold of the number though.

 

When there’s a lapse in conversation, Clint texts Red: _‘Hi, I’m Clint. You’re the Red Head at the bar right? Not just some early April fool’s prank?’_

_‘Cynical aren’t you. You can call me Natasha.’_

_‘Damn. Name as hot as you are.’_

_‘Urgh.’_

 

Clint frowns at the text and looks over expecting to see Natasha at the bar. The woman is still there thank God, and she rolls her eyes. ‘So’, Clint texts quickly as he hears the conversation picking up, _‘you don’t like compliments?’_

_‘Heard that one. I like originality.’_

_‘Nothing is original anymore. Everything’s been done.’_

_‘You’ve not been done by me.’_

 

Clint reads that one twice then laughs like a child. “Fuck. I’m sorry guys, this is the best night.” He’s already waving goodbye as Natasha puts on her coat across the room. This woman… Fuck, she was dangerous and Clint didn’t care.

 

* * *

 

“Ah shit. Yeah! God damn, yeah!” Clint couldn’t believe his luck. She didn’t live far from the bar, and she knew what she was doing. He couldn’t believe he was all the way inside her, feeling her writhe over him with a calm collected expression that left it hard to know if he was doing anything for her or if her was just holding on to her hips and letting her use him like a breathing sex toy.

 

“Ah.” She moans softly every now and then, and Clint assumes that’s all he’s going to get from her, except she doesn’t hold all the cards. Every now and then she—Natasha, is moving herself or him in a way that makes her gasp out louder and clutch her hand into his chest. Not that he minds that. The way her nails dig into his skin reminds him that he’s not just some passive observer in this little tangle of limbs.

 

But there were aspects of her home that made Clint wonder if he was just being too… Well… Tame.

 

The walls were covered in fine art, some depicting the naked female form, and others with some slightly weirder images. Like a torso bent over backwards, standing on table legs instead of hands and feet. Balanced with a weight atop it and no head that Clint could see. Like a store mannequin or a marble statue with no need for a face. It should have freaked him out, but all he could see was art that depicted where Natasha saw herself in that image. Clint knew without second guessing that he was the bent over statue, that she was the powerful weight he held up.

 

Oddly though, Clint had only known her name and preference of drink. How could he assume to be what held her up, when she must have thought he was no more useful than table? The thought in its strangeness held him back from the edge of spilling into her. But at the same time he didn’t find it so odd that he wilted into a flaccid, useless, organ either. He blamed how tight she felt around him, how hot she was after every return from almost being slid out of her. How easy the slide back in was with how God Damn wet she was for him. “Fuck!” He yells. “Baby, you gotta—“

 

“Natasha.” She corrects as she grinds her hips again, making him squeeze his hands into her thighs.

 

“Natasha. Nat… Shit. Nat you gotta slow down. I’m gonna come if you don’t.”

 

“So come.” She demands, and the way she says it is so forgiving, as if he’d never had the thought in the first place and she had just given it to him anew. He thrusts hard into her, and she tilts her head back and grinds down. Clint hits his head back fiercely into the pillow as he drives up, and as she lets out a soundless scream he hears his heartbeat in his ears and nothing else as he comes in her.

 

After he’s done and she’s in the bathroom, Clint gets up and finds himself still transfixed by the imagery she keeps on the wall opposite the bed. He sits on the edge with his boxers almost on his hips and almost on if he’d just move his left cheek up, staring out at that picture. He doesn’t hear her at first. She stares at him, with an expectant look on her face. She speaks again, and he frowns as no sound comes out of her lips.

 

“My hearing aids fell out.” He explains. He doesn’t know if he’s being quiet or loud or if he’s even speaking at all. For a moment Natasha isn’t sure what to do, but as he pats the bed down, Nat gets the message. He didn’t need to look for long. One had rolled off of the pillow into the sweat dampened groove where his shoulder had been, and Natasha holds up the other one that had slid between the mattress and frame. She smiles at him, not unkindly. Not with pity. It was all he could ask of someone who didn’t know him.

 

“You like it?” She asks, in no hurry it seemed to push him away or out of her apartment. Natasha sits next to him on the bed, and kisses his cheek. Clint smiles, and returns one to her unpainted lips. His aids are back in, and they’ve not had to talk about it. They’re looking back at her artwork on the wall.

 

“It made me think I held you up.” Clint replies honestly. He wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. Something about this woman made him unable to lie.

 

“Weird…” Nat softly concludes. “Everyone else who’s seen it assume they’re the weight on top of everyone else.”

 

“Didn’t you buy it because you thought the same?”

 

“I suppose I did.” She laughs easily. When she looks back at him, Clint can sense the awkward ‘this isn’t forever’ speech. “Listen. My job is kind of odd for most people… I don’t think you’d like to know it’s my profession to make a lot of people feel like you do with that painting.”

 

“Hey I got no money and you asked me here to do what we did.” Clint holds up his hands. He’s smirking at her, and that relaxes Natasha.

 

“I know. I’m not gonna charge you or expect you to crawl around my room.” They both grin at that, and Clint shrugs his shoulders.

 

“I can go but… I’m kind of hoping this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing. I mean, excluding all your… Professional stuff.”

 

Natasha assesses him, really staring with eyes lightly speckled by her bedroom lamps. “Maybe not. But it’s rare I feel like having sex. If you ever wanted to do this again, you’d have to know I don’t want anything different from tonight.” Clint nods his understanding. He’s glad for it since he doesn’t know how he’d feel or how he’d react to something like domination. He assumes its domination. Natasha seems pretty happy to clear it up when he asks.

 

“I’m really not the right kind of guy to be dating right now. How about you text me whenever you need me?”

 

Natasha looks relieved. It was like she didn’t want Clint to say ‘dating’, or ‘friends with benefits’, or the dreaded ‘booty call’ phrase. “Whenever.” She agrees. They even shake hands on it and trade kisses. Clint leaves feeling lighter and happier than usual, and he hoped that Nat felt a little better to have gotten laid.

 

“I’m telling you, I had the better St. Patricks.” Clint boasts over the meet-up of his hung-over pals the morning after.

 

“She rode your dick so hard you lost your hearing?” Sam sounds so annoyed but so pathetic with sickness that Clint ends up laughing and buying his friend a hangover breakfast to make up for doing so.


End file.
